


Between the Silences

by ShadowOfHapiness



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (This is really only an excuse for 14K of whump and an emotionally constipated Geralt), Hidden Injury, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Episode: s01e05 Bottled Appetites, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23767417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowOfHapiness/pseuds/ShadowOfHapiness
Summary: Geralt had only wished for some damn peace.He just wasn't entierly prepared for what it cost.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 42
Kudos: 532





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> If you're here for high literature and well crafted plot, I've got bad news for you  
> If you're here for emotionally constipated Witchers and hurt bards, I have great news for you :)

It had been close to a month since a djinn nearly choked him to death and Jaskier was firmly sticking to his resolution of being more quiet. He hadn't realized, before, how obnoxious the sound of his own voice could make him seem, how it upset Geralt – Geralt who was used to his days of solitude and quietness – how his endless rambling and empty talk frustrated him, an unwanted disruption in his ordinarily peaceful existence.

Jaskier had made a point of trying then, and outside of his gentle humming to test out whatever lyrics he was currently writing or his performances in the taverns and inns they happened to halt in, he tried to bother him as little as possible. If he could make a little extra coin for them in the absence of the Witcher, well neither one of them could complain.

Actually, Geralt seemed rather content with the way things were going, maybe Jaskier was finally proving to be a worthy travel companion.

Or at least, he'd said nothing yet hinting at the contrary.

The last thing Geralt had told him, was to stay put, and Jaskier, of course, hadn't listened. The Witcher had reluctantly let him come along, probably thought he'd be rid of his incessant nagging sooner were he to do so _– But Geralt,_ he'd said, _How do you think I'm to write tales of your exploits and sing them to the Continent if you never let me witness them? –_ he'd thought, for sure, that he'd be shut down. Instead, Geralt had merely hummed, much to his surprise, and to Jaskier's ears, it certainly hadn't been an objection.

The two drowners the contract was for turned out to be a whole pack of them – quite the ugly little fuckers, if one were to ask Jaskier his opinion on them – and from where he was, hidden safely away behind the bushes, as per Geralt's stern command, he furiously took down as many notes as he could, occasionally worrying his bottom lip when one of the creatures came far too close to the White Wolf for his liking.

Geralt had vastly underestimated the beasts, of that there was little doubt now. He'd have very much liked to blame it on the poor people from the neighbouring town, whose terror probably accounted for their wrong information, but there was little to do for it now but to slay the lot of them. They were not the most intelligent of creatures, merely drawing them out of the river and a well-placed strike to the neck killing them before they'd do any harm, but the sheer number of them eventually got to him, trapping him, his heart beating loudly in his breast as he slashed the one that latched onto his shoulder, kicked the other one clawing at his boot, and still, the nasty fuckers kept coming at him, tireless. He was out of breath, cruelly in need of a moment of respite when he turned at the sound of yet another one, too late, to see it coming onto him, nothing left for him to do but-

But nothing, for as it's clawed appendage reached for him, it's face contorted in agony, an ugly scream pried from its throat as it breathed it's last and it's body twisted and coiled around before collapsing on the ground, dead, Jaskier standing behind it, breathing hard as he sheathed the small dagger Geralt had offered him in his belt. At the sound of their companion's demise, the other drowners seemed to see sense, retreating to the depths of the lake for now, and Geralt vowed to come back for them as soon as the sun rose tomorrow.

He lay there for a moment, limbs aching and breath coming in pants, then took Jaskier's outstretched hand when the bard offered it to him, blood beating too hard in both their temples as the Witcher lead them back to Roach, who they'd left grazing safely away. Jaskier felt no lighter for it, for beside him, he could sense Geralt's anger simmering, just waiting to be unleashed.

* * *

The door closed with a quiet _click,_ and it was all Geralt had needed to unleash the storm. Fury clouded his golden eyes, usually so clear and gleaming, now a shadow of that, and the glare he smote him with from where he was across the room as he fumbled with the laces of his shirt was more than enough to keep Jaskier quiet. Usually, the bard would have jumped at the opportunity, help divest the Witcher of his gut-soaked clothes and helped him bathe, lavish him in oils and scents and everything Geralt deemed useless – but Jaskier knew, deep down, that while his friend might not say anything, that Geralt liked the stuff- but tonight… Tonight he didn't think it very prudent to upset him more than he already was.

Turning towards him, he could feel the heavy weight of his stare, golden eyes gleaming in the candlelight and held no small amount of judgment in them. Anger, frustration, a maelstrom of emotions brimming in his incandescent irises, and suddenly, Jaskier understood why people feared the Witcher so much.

"Did I not tell you to stay put, Jaskier?" He asked, eventually.

Some fools said that Witchers didn't have emotions, Jaskier would very much like to see them here, now, had little doubt that they would wither and shake in their knees were the great Geralt of Rivia to turn such a tempest of emotions upon them. The heavy disappointment and anger he could feel rolling off Geralt in waves, the Witcher not even bothering to restrain his outburst even a little, would put those fools' lies to shame.

He didn't even realize he'd huddled into himself slightly.

"You did." Was all he could manage, throat clogged up all of a sudden. And, really, what else was he to say?

"And you decided that you'd just come along anyway, did you?"

"That drowner would have snapped you neck clean off if I hadn't killed it." Jaskier argued, and yes, it may have been a rather weak excuse, but it was true. Geralt would have been hurt, pretty badly too, had he not taken care of the beast. Besides, he wasn't really up for arguing with the Witcher in that moment, he was frankly too exhausted to be angry right now, if Geralt wished to resume their disagreement about saving his lovely arse in combat in the morning, Jaskier would be all ears.

Geralt, for his part, was quiet for a moment, both of them understanding the implication behind Jaskier's words. For all of the Witcher's professed lack of communication skills, Jaskier had to admit that he was learning rather fast, and had become quite skilful when it came to understanding what was left unsaid. Maybe that's why, he thought, they made such a good team: Geralt did all the fighting, being covered in monster innards and heavy lifting, and Jaskier looked after the talking, the social and interactions, the things Geralt wasn't comfortable with. It worked, and Jaskier was, so far, satisfied with their arrangement.

He wouldn't have minded more, but Geralt had his limits, and Jaskier wasn't one to push them. Let the great White Wolf figure himself out in his own time. Being accepted as his travel companion was enough, for now.

Said White Wolf grunted, put a pin in their disagreement and turned away from him to the door. "Come on, let's grab a bite before turning in."

Jaskier felt his shoulders sag in relief, Geralt's anger seemed to have fizzled out, the Witcher looking more exhausted than anything else, and he kicked himself at having so obviously upset him. He'd done enough of that already, one more fuck up and Geralt was sure to leave him behind, wish him out of his life forever and threaten to cut his balls off were they to meet again. Jaskier knew a day would come where, inevitably, they would part ways, but preferred not to think about it most days, didn't think he'd be able to bare it when it eventually happened. He'd have to be sure to not be a nuisance to him from now on, and so, he obediently followed.

Geralt's hand on the small of his back, as they gingerly made their way down the stairs, was nice. Not that he would ever dare say that aloud.

"Are you hurt?" He even asked him, eventually, his voice quiet, devoid of his earlier anger, eyes stoically locked ahead.

"No, I'm fine." Jaskier said, seizing the olive branch as it was handed to him and relieved when he felt Geralt's earlier discomfort abate somewhat beside him, his shoulders slumping slightly as they settled at the table. The soup was nice, warmed his heart and their half-starved bellies, and as Jaskier sought to entertain him with one of Valdo Marx's unfortunate blunders, he did not fail to notice the curve of a smile at the edge of Geralt's lips, his mood much lighter after that.

Half way through dinner, it's the Witcher who decided to talk, and Jaskier was content to listen, feeling exhaustion gnaw at his bones and his arm grow rather heavy, and so he nodded along to Geralt's plans, about how, early tomorrow morning he would go back to the lake and deal with the last drowner, then they would set off, word of another contract three towns over for a werewolf having reached Geralt's ears. He wasn't particularly talkative tonight, was content with his friend outlining which passage they would be taking, while he thought about what song he'd be able to take away from this. Half-way through Geralt talking about how he wanted to stop along the way, find a second horse because Roach would not be able to bear the weight of both of their tack indefinitely, Jaskier yawned, sleep beckoning him and stretched.

Or he tried to, stopped himself rolling his shoulder half-way through as a dull ache there reared it's head, rather abruptly too, if one were to ask him. A little warning next time would be nice.

In his haste to placate Geralt and keep his head down, he'd almost forgotten that the beast's clawed appendage must have caught him in the fray, he'd have to see to it later. Preferably when he had some time alone, where Geralt wouldn't be barging in on him and subject him once again to his anger like he had earlier. No, this Jaskier could deal with, it probably wasn't much anyway, there was no need to tell Geralt, who was upset enough as it was already. He wasn't about to bother him with his endless prattle, Geralt had made his feelings on that matter quite clear already _– I just want some damn peace!_

Good thing his doublet hid the damage for now.

* * *

He'd been sure it was nothing to worry about, it wasn't the first time he'd caught his shoulder on something, Jaskier had hoped that sleeping it off would do the trick.

Yet a couple of hours later, after both he and Geralt had turned in for the night, when all was quiet and the warm meal still sat nicely in his stomach, when the adrenaline finally faded, Jaskier awoke to said shoulder throbbing in pain.

He immediately glanced to Geralt at the other side of the bed they were sharing, worried his sudden jolt back into consciousness might have rudely awoken him, but to his relief, he was fast asleep, eyes closed and breathing softly – _good,_ the Witcher had been far too tired for his own good over the past few days, and Jaskier had been rather quick to catch onto the fact that this whole spiel about Witchers needing nothing was mostly bullshit anyway – and in a split-second decision, before he could bring himself to really think it through, he pulled himself up stiffly, thanking his stars that no mortifying whimper passed his lips, and fumbled his way to the adjacent bathroom, making sure to close the door behind him. He didn't particularly fancy an unexpected late-night visitor.

He couldn't see the wound through his shirt, the dark material practically turned black under the faint glow of the moon filtering in through the window, knew he was unfortunately going to have to pull it off to garner a look at it. And that would have been fine, really, if it weren't for the fact that his sleeve seemed to be stuck to the now dried blood underneath, dark grey tinted brown, and wasn't that _just great?_ Jaskier was going to have to replace it next time Geralt and he would stop in a market. And his shirts did not come cheap, such sacrifices were necessary when one was a respected performer.

Deciding he ought not to push his luck, and very much _not_ wanting to give the material a sharp tug, Jaskier eyed the bucket in the corner, the one with dubious-looking water in it. He didn't have any desire to have the stuff come anywhere near his skin, not unless he'd disinfected with his many soaps and salts beforehand, but he wasn't about to chance waking Geralt, and so, heaving a sigh, Jaskier hobbled over and knelt by the wooden container. With his good hand, he wet his damaged sleeve – and really, he _was_ very upset he'd somehow managed to ruin the shirt, he'd paid good money for it – grit his teeth as it pried the soft material away from his wound painfully slowly – _fuck,_ someone must have been having a good laugh at his expense somewhere, he thought cynically – and had to remind himself several times to breathe through it as he pulled his shirt off over his head, discarding it beside him on the floor.

Bare, he tried moving his arm, Jaskier letting out a sigh of relief when he saw that he could still feel it, though the pain was definitely more acute now than it had been earlier. When it became clear to him that he was in no danger of losing it, he gingerly crawled to the window, to the little patch where the faint moonlight bled in through the glass. It certainly didn't beat a candle, but with none to spare and none he could see in the bathroom, the moon would have to do. Then, with one deep breath for courage, he dared look down.

And… _Fuck._

Fuck, the drowner had caused far more damage than he'd initially thought.

_How did I not realise it was this bad?_

He was positive that he would have remember it, had the beast wounded him this badly, but Jaskier didn't recall much of anything of the fight, supposed the thing must have nicked him in the arm while he'd had a moment of inattention, valiantly dashing to Geralt's rescue like one of those knight in shining armour he'd occasionally sing about.

Only Geralt wasn't some damsel in distress, Jaskier doubted very much his friend would appreciate him depicting him as such in his writing.

 _This…_ This was far worse than he'd pinned it down to be, far more than he would have liked to admit to himself, and as Jaskier looked back to the door, to their room, eyes boring through the wooden entrance to Geralt on their shared bed, he knew he wouldn't be given much privacy if he kept messing about like this, he knew Geralt could sense far more acutely than he let on.

_Fuck, you can't tell Geralt. He's upset enough as it is, he'll be downright furious at this. He'll send you away for good this time._

And Jaskier just couldn't have that, he just _couldn't._ Geralt, through all of their adventures and _mis_ adventures together, had become somewhat of a constant for him, from a source of inspiration and a quick bit of coin here and there to the very finest of muses and, at least in Jaskier's mind, his closest friend. Perhaps more than that, even. No, telling Geralt wasn't an option, and he supposed a little discomfort on his part was worth it if it meant he'd still be the Witcher's traveling companion. Gods knew Jaskier had seen Geralt in enough pain to last him a lifetime, and Geralt, strong and level-headed, always endured it with little complaint. He supposed if Geralt could bare far worse pain than he with naught but a murmur, then Jaskier could damn well deal with a scratch in comparison.

_Think Jaskier, use that thick head of yours._

So, telling Geralt was out of the question, yet the problem of what to do with his wounded arm remained. Jaskier may have prided himself in his vast expanse of knowledge, yet as a renowned bard and Oxenfurt graduate, he had little expertise in the field of medicine aside perhaps from the few times Geralt let him help patch him up, and that usually was nothing more than wrapping a couple of bandages around his – admittedly _very fine,_ if Jaskier were being honest – torso. The only problem with that was, well, Geralt liked to keep his things close to him, meaning his supplies were in his pack, which was on the floor beside his person. It wouldn't be right, taking from him like that, especially when Jaskier had injured himself after deliberately disobeying him, and taking from his companion without said companion's knowledge of his theft did not sit right with the bard anyway, he'd sunken to some lows throughout his life, but he didn't think he'd ever sink so low as to steal from his very best friend in the whole wide world.

All in all, Jaskier was back at square one, _what to do?_

After an aborted attempt at cleaning the wound out, the blistering cry of pain only stopped as Jaskier bit down on his lip, hard, he once again eyed his ruined shirt on the floor. Granted, he would rather not have had to do such a thing to it, felt pain in his heart as he sealed it's fate nonetheless, and had to look away as he tore a strip from the bottom of it. It cost him a pretty penny, but he supposed shirts came and went, and if Geralt let him continue to travel with him, Jaskier would have ample opportunity to acquire another one someday, maybe even a nicer one. He tied the crude strip off as best he could – not easy with just one hand to spare, he was clumsy, had to try more than once, and by the time Jaskier managed something he deemed acceptable his teeth were clenched to stop his pathetic whimpering and he was pretty sure the tears of frustration had finally spilled over onto his cheeks.

_Breathe, Jaskier, just breathe, no use passing out now. It's really not that bad, Geralt has had worse and lived to tell the tale._

He stayed there, hunched over on the bathroom's wooden floor, his good hand hovering over his injury until the insipid darkness at the edge of his vision cleared somewhat, and it was just him, his harsh breathing and the faint glow of the moon once again. When the pain abated somewhat, and Jaskier thought he might be able to stand again without keeling straight over, he unsteadily got back to his feet, thanked Melitele for not passing out right then and there, and, as gently as he could put his ruined shirt back on, careful to jostle his wound as little as possible.

Geralt was, thankfully, still asleep, when Jaskier closed the bathroom door behind him, his silver hair ruffled and unkempt, and he was on his side, features lax. He looked peaceful, as he dozed, no doubt in the thralls of a pleasant dream if the striking traits on his face were anything to go by, and Jaskier couldn't help but smile gently, as he hobbled over to their bed, relieved to see he had not disturbed him. If he took another moment to place one unruly strand of hair back where it belonged behind his eara, and lingered a few seconds longer to pull Geralt's blanket a little higher so as to not let him catch cold – and really try to not appreciate his rippled chest and his soft breathing – well the Witcher would be none the wiser about it.

He then gingerly settled down on the other side of the bed, as far away from Geralt as he could manage without threatening to fall on the floor. He had to restrain himself from facing him once he snuck under the covers of their shared bed, so used was he to this arrangement – Geralt said one room and one bed tended to save them a lot of money, and, well, Jaskier was not about to disagree- and settled himself on his left side, his left shoulder pressed deep into the old mattress. His left shoulder which he hardly ever slept on out of fear of it going numb the next day, he needed that shoulder in tip top condition if it were to bare the weight of the strap of his lute.

Jaskier shivered, wished perhaps that, were Geralt more amenable to the idea, he might huddle against him for warmth. He hoped a long-awaited sleep would come for him fast.


	2. II

Jaskier awoke to a terrible headache pounding in his head, his eyes burning, and, were it possible, more exhausted than he’d been before he’d eventually fallen asleep last night, his entire body stiff and uncomfortable.

Next to him, the other side of the bed was already empty and his heart dropped, _Geralt was gone._

Of course, he should have expected it. After the djinn, Geralt would not stand for his persistent nagging much longer, he just chose to leave in the dead of the night to make it easier for both of them.

Still, Jaskier was reminded all too much of his pain when he jolted upright at the realization, thought it almost fitting, a welcome distraction from the shattering of his glass heart. He ought really to be more careful of who he gave it to in the future, he mused, cynical.

Actually, it was probably for the best that Geralt not see him like this, because _fuck_ were the shuddering breath and the tears in his eyes as he tied his doublet up quite humiliating, certainly unbefitting of a dignified traveling companion of the great White Wolf.

It was as Jaskier finished fiddling with the last button that the sun caught a shimmer in the corner of the room, Geralt’s brilliant sword and well-groomed armour neatly set beside their bed, Geralt probably somewhere downstairs then, no doubt getting something to eat or tending gently to Roach before heading out. Jaskier felt he could breathe again, the crippling weight on his chest lifted at the sight of the Witcher’s belongings, he hadn’t left him behind, thank Melitele. Yet he knew that it still remained a very real possibility, were he to fuck up or annoy him again somehow, Geralt certainly wouldn’t be so magnanimous.

The Witcher in question, entirely unaware of his premonition, came back shortly after Jaskier’s heart had slowed down to a normal human’s rate again, offered him a crust of bread and a bowl of porridge, with for only words, “You seem rather quiet lately.”

So he _had_ noticed.

“Well, I don’t have anything to say yet, but don’t worry, it’ll come.” Jaskier replied with false enthusiasm, knew it wouldn’t. But that was alright, it would mean things would be easier for Geralt to manage, and he’d come to realize, eventually, that Jaskier could be accommodating to his needs after everything the Witcher had done for him, that he was worth keeping around for a little while longer at least.

Geralt didn’t answer, merely gave him an odd look, one Jaskier couldn’t quite read, and he did his best to smile around a mouthful of hot breakfast, even if his arm was on fire and his eyes were probably filled to the brim with unshed tears.

* * *

Geralt was out again, looking for the last elusive drowners he’d not managed to kill a couple of days ago, only difference was that, this time, Jaskier had been told to stay behind, the Witcher had said he’d rather he remain at the inn than trail after him. Jaskier wasn’t an idiot, he was a poet, a master in the art of reading between the lines, deciphering the intentions laying behind one’s choice of words, and Geralt’s had been pretty clear: _he’d be nothing but a nuisance, were he to accompany him._ He’d distract Geralt, make him say something he did not mean, he would be clawing at his throat again and coughing up blood, and Geralt would once more bear misplaced guilt upon his shoulders. Jaskier did not want that for his friend, so he understood, obediently stayed at the inn.

It wasn’t so bad, he mostly found ways to keep himself busy throughout the morning, thought up the most fantastical poems and imagined drafting hours of love and care to turn them into masterpieces. He might have written down a couple of notes too, were his arm not in such a state, but there was little he could do about that now, one word and Geralt would be certain to know about it. He thought, several times, that he might check his shoulder, just take a peek at it now that the sun was up and Geralt was nowhere to be found, but his apprehension always seemed to get the better of him, and when dinner rolled around, Jaskier gave up any pretence of caring for it.

It was just a scratch anyway, how bad could it possibly get?

Supper was a sorry affair, Jaskier spending the last of his coin on a dubious-looking bowl of stew, and sat alone in the darkest and dingiest corner he could find, of a mind he would rather not entertain anyone’s urge for conversation today. He was barely holding himself up as it was, a prolonged interaction where he needed to _think_ about what he’d say and come up with a witty sentence or two would certainly see him keel over, and Geralt would be told about it when he inevitably came back. No, best to keep to himself.

Maybe Geralt would even appreciate his newfound sense of introversion one day.

Still, he ate the stew half-heartedly, his trusted lute by his side, and a stack of papers resting by his elbow. He had no intention of writing anything, couldn’t even if he wanted to, but supposed that pouring over the couple of songs he’d written already with a more critical eye could do little harm. And who knew, perhaps inspiration would strike while he sat down here, might as well have his tools at the ready than risk forgetting the feelings he was experiencing by the time he made it back to Geralt and his’ shared room.

“Are you all right?”

 _Well, so much for peace,_ Jaskier thought wryly, when he eventually realized whoever it was seemed to be talking to him. The person, as it happened, turned out to be the old innkeeper, who was looking at him with a sceptical eyebrow and no small amount of curiosity brimming in his eyes. It was only then that Jaskier took note of the fact that he’d somehow been absentmindedly picking at his sleeve instead of his dinner – which had probably gone cold by now, more than half of it still in the bowl, untouched – and the innkeeper seemed none too pleased about it.

“Anything I ought to be worried about? You look tired, lad.”

“No,” He lied, smoothly, blessed his Oxenfurt oratory classes, “Not at all, I’m merely… Weary, setting aside my lute for the moment. I promise to use it later though,” He said, as a means to placate the man. Which thankfully looked like it worked, “I’ll give you a performance you’ve never seen before in your life!”

He tried to sound enthusiastic, but it fell flat, even to his ears.

“Oh, that’s lovely!” The portly fellow said, seeming to have lit up at the prospect of some music, probably thought it good for business, that a little liveliness in his quaint establishment would be more likely to attract any late-night wanderers in need of rest. “May I see it? I’ve never seen a real one up close, we don’t get that many bards around this place.”

 _Fuck._ Jaskier really should have thought this through before opening his stupid mouth, he scolded himself. He’d only meant to come down here for dinner, maybe pour over a song or two before turning in early for the night, sleep off the pain and pray it would be gone by morning. Except that, now that he looked at the man, he seemed to be cornered, there was nowhere for him to run, and Jaskier was not cruel enough to turn down someone who showed honest interest in his craft. Heaving a defeated sigh, he leaned back, tried to jostle his arm as little as possible as he carefully took his lute out of its case – it was in pristine condition, as always. Geralt oft said that Jaskier spent far too long pampering the thing, not that he understood the tender and loving care the lute need have to spread word of his exploits – and it took a mere fraction of a moment for the man’s eyes to positively light up.

Oh no, Jaskier had a _very_ bad feeling about this.

“Oh! Do go on, would you give me a few notes? Just to know what I can expect tonight?”

Fuck.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck. How the fuck was he supposed to say no?_

He did not think his voice to be strong enough to sing an entire song without wavering somewhat, and he knew for certain he’d not be able to get through a piece without his arm giving out, holding his lute correctly would be a challenge, what with his fucked-up shoulder and all.

But, a bard lived to please the whims of those who appreciated their art, and so, reluctantly, Jaskier retrieved his instrument from its case, picked it up in a far tighter hold than he probably normally would have, and heaved the strap over his right shoulder. Yet as soon as his lute was set, his grip felt unsteady, his fingers trembling under the strain already, and he could do little else but let muscle memory from years of practice weave their magic as he brushed his fingers over the strings-

-and promptly bit down on his lip so hard that he was fairly certain he could taste the unpleasant tang of blood on his tongue. Fuck, his left shoulder could not even bare the weight of his strumming, it would seem.

Any other time the innkeeper might have asked a performance of him, Jaskier would have more than happily complied, sang him everything his heart desired and then some, for however long he was willing to listen to him. Here and now, however, with one of his arms out of action, was another story entirely.

The few notes he’d managed to string out still hung in the air between them, an unbefitting taste of his talent, Jaskier thought sadly, but did not think himself capable to produce much more than that, unfortunately. Not with the darkness seeping into the edges of his vision once again and an agonizing fire burning down the length of his arm.

“You sure you’re all right, laddie? You look a little pale.” The innkeeper chuckled, a hearty tankard of good ale in his hand, gently nudged the damned thing right into his injured arm and _wasn’t that just what he needed?_ Perhaps he thought Jaskier to be drunk.

Had he a choice in the matter, Jaskier thought he would much rather be drunk. At least, he knew hangovers to go away eventually, give them a few hours and they would leave of their own free will, they wouldn’t be putting his entire career in potential jeopardy.

“N-No,” He stuttered, hated how shaky his voice sounded to his ears, “I’m merely… A little weary from my travels. Traipsing after a Witcher and writing witty songs about him takes its toll on a man, you see.” The lie came easily – too easily, perhaps- spoken through clenched teeth, it was quite a wonder he even had breath to spare to speak when he could feel his injury so cruelly robbing him of it. Jaskier had to look down again, nervous eyes darting to his limp shoulder and arm, just to make sure he’d not lost the thing, and become a cripple never able to play again.

What a bard he’d be when that happened, he thought, cynically, Valdo Marx would not even have to work very hard to have the next hit throughout the entire Continent with material like that. Quite a tragedy, really, that his rival’s renown would come at the price of his own downfall, but Jaksier supposed he would die happy with the knowledge that, at least, the lesser troubadour would owe him his entire career.

Maybe, just _maybe_ Jaskier thought, he should have said something to Geralt.

And then, just as quickly, he hastened to amend his silly thinking. No, he had been right to keep his mouth shut. Geralt was still upset, had told him in no uncertain terms that his voice was naught but a filling less pie and that he’d wished for some peace and quiet. Jaskier supposed he ought to give him that, at least, as payment for him fucking around with the djinn.

“But, it’s nothing.” He said, plastered a tense smile and really hoped it looked somewhat convincing. “I just… Happened to scratch my arm while following Geralt in an unfortunate encounter a couple of days ago, nothing to fret over I assure you. I was not expecting you to feel me up like that.”

Were he in his right state of mind, Jaskier didn’t think he would have minded all that much, perhaps he’d even have cheekily told him that the gentle touch of a lady (or a man, he really had little preference, when it came to fine company) would have been more than welcomed. The innkeeper, however, knew too much, and he did not particularly fancy him prying anything further out of him, lest he later happen to open his mouth and inadvertently let something slip to Geralt.

Deciding he’d rather cut their discussion short, Jaskier made to stand up, well intent to run and hide in their room like a coward and patiently await Geralt’s return. Then they would share a hearty meal together, he’d sleep off the pain and they would be on their merry way again by morning and nobody would be none the wiser.

“Really, it’s just a scratch. As I said, nothing to worry about, I promise.” He hastily added for good measure, when he noticed the innkeeper still fixing him with _that_ look. Geralt had already wasted enough hard earned supplies on his sorry self as it was, Jaskier was well aware of how much of a pain in the arse he’d been – captured by elves, had dragged Geralt to a celebration and needed his timely protection, and they had barely met up again and he’d made him release a djinn, needed his rescue _once more._

No, Jaskier did not intend to burden him any further if he could help it.

The innkeeper held his hands up, thinly veiled scepticism still brimming in his eyes, and Jaskier puffed out of frustration, the man wasn’t going to let him off that easily, was he? “I’m not letting you play tonight until you show me, I’ll not be responsible for anyone fainting in my establishment.”

Well that was just unfair, and, indignant, Jaskier could no longer contain himself. “As much as I appreciate your concern, good sir, I fear that this is none of your business.” And perhaps there was too much force behind his words, perhaps the generous innkeeper deserved not for him to speak to him in such an uncouth manner, but, really, Jaskier wanted not for there to be anyone else involved in this. This was a mess of his making, and he would see to it that he cleaned it up, alone. “Really, it’s just a scratch, I’m fine.”

“Then you’ll have no trouble letting me see it, will you? I’m not letting you play a single note on that lute of yours until you do.”

He drove a very hard bargain, Jaskier could say as much, which was good for the innkeeper’s business, no doubt, just slightly less so for him. He was almost half-tempted to go out there, find Geralt and drag him back so he could stare down the innkeeper with that fierce glare of his, make the man shake in his knees and relent. Geralt wasn’t here, however, and not wanting to push his luck any further, lest the man decide to throw them out – and Geralt would definitely be furious, were Jaskier to mess things up even further than he already had. Jaskier needed to be useful, prove to the Witcher he was worth his salt, and having their host turn on them did not seem a smart move to make, Jaskier wasn’t playing or about to make any extra coin until the man was satisfied. Sighing, a tad dramatically perhaps, he rolled his eyes and complied without any further arguing.

He tried playing it off like it didn’t matter, like it did not bother him, yet the frown the innkeeper shot his way was anything but reassuring. His bushy eyebrows creased in concern, and he noticeably winced at the way Jaskier had bound the wound, rather crudely in his haste to cover it up no doubt. _Yes, he knew he was no miracle worker, thank you very much._

“That’s way more than _“just a scratch”,_ lad. Your arm is about to fall off.” He deadpanned, not mincing his words in the slightest. At least he was honest, he had that much going for him if nothing else. “Your rag there is soaked through. How’d a bard have something like that happen to him?”

Always eager for a good story, Jaskier saw no harm in filling him in, the cat was out of the bag now anyway. “A cluster of terrible drowners Geralt and I had an unfortunate run in with, not pretty business I assure you. If you let me play tonight, I’ll even sing all about it to you and your fine company.” He pushed again, ever hopeful, and the innkeeper shot it down with one withering stare. “One of them must have nicked me in the arm while I wasn’t looking, Geralt had to save my hide again. He wasn’t exactly happy about it.”

The poor Witcher always seemed to have to save his sorry arse somehow. For all his grand airs, Jaskier was not stupid, he knew he was no fighter, and that his lack of skills would weigh down on his friend eventually, that he was lucky he’d not been sent away yet. If word of this ever reached Geralt, however, he was pretty certain their companionship would come to a rather abrupt end, however, and call him selfish perhaps, but Jaskier was wanting for company – _Geralt’s_ company, were he to be precise. And wanting Geralt’s company meant he could never know about this.

“Fine,” The innkeeper sighed, reluctant at the prospects letting entertainment and good coin go to waste, “But don’t pass out on me, lad, or that will be your fault.”

Jaskier sighed in relief, and as soon as the man had turned away, he darted back upstairs in a flash, left his half-empty plate behind. He had little appetite anyways.

He prayed a short nap would help.

* * *

Geralt came back later that evening, covered in drowner guts and positively _reeking._ Jaskier would have gagged, but thought better of his stupid antics when he noticed Geralt seemed rather drained, a heavy slump in his shoulders and dark rings under his eyes betraying his exhaustion. He really wished he could appreciate it, when he later helped him bathe, helped wash the repugnant entrails off of him, tried cracking a joke here and there when he could to lighten the mood a little and asked the Witcher if he could perhaps consider either hunting nicer creatures like unicorns or something, or at the very least consider hunting them in more pleasant environments in the future.

Geralt, for his part, allowed himself to relax somewhat, glad to be back, and perhaps enjoying the attention.

“You know, pretty creatures fetch less of a price, Jaskier. They also make for duller songs.” He said, wryly, the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and Jaskier would tell him he should try to smile more often, because it made him nicer and Geralt ought to allow himself to be soft sometimes, to feel happy and content, but he knew not, anymore, how much of his talk was welcome, so he didn’t.

“I thought you didn’t like my singing voice,” He said instead, with no real heat behind his words, “Called it a filling less pie, if I recall correctly?” And yes, Jaskier had been quite hurt by such an indecorous remark, especially coming from his very best friend, but he supposed it was just Geralt telling the truth, that he really didn’t like his singing. He’d just chosen to be blind to it, up until then.

“I might have spoken too soon, I’ve grown… rather fond of it.” The Witcher said, a hint of remorse in his voice, as he looked at him, apologetic, all big golden eyes and furrowed brow and how exactly was Jaskier supposed to hold a grudge towards the man when he looked at him like _that_ and sent his heart fluttering? He tried very hard to ignore his pounding chest and the heat he could feel tinting his cheeks an embarrassing shade of pink – definitely _not_ due to the hot steam from the bath – and instead set about washing Geralt’s hair, his fingers softly carding through the delicate silver tresses. If he happened to catch his shoulder again as he moved too suddenly, Jaskier just swallowed the cry, caring for Geralt seemed a tad more important right now.

“You all right?” The Witcher asked nonetheless, keen eyes having undoubtedly caught his movement, his voice quiet, brought on no doubt by the intimacy of what they were sharing in.

If Jaskier were being honest about his injury, he could have told him everything then, could have shown him his fucked up shoulder, and willingly subjected himself to his ire, watch with a broken heart as Geralt’s friendly smile turned upside down, anger and frustration to soon cloud his lovely face, but Geralt was tired, he’d just spent an excruciating amount of time cleaning his skin of all remains of blood and guts, the last thing he needed right now was a reminder. And really, Jaskier knew his little cut was probably nothing, nothing at all compared to the injuries he’d seen Geralt sport in the past – he was positive a number of them might even have brought on a grey hair or two in his head far earlier than he’d have liked. Really, all Geralt would say was that he’d just have to suck it up, stop complaining or he’d leave him behind for good.

Better to not bother him with such a trite little thing, Jaskier thought.

Instead of chancing Fate and ending up saying something he’d later regret, he got back to his feet, thought Geralt man enough to finish bathing by himself, his hair was mostly clean by now anyway. He pat his shoulder gently before taking his leave, perhaps lingered a moment longer than he ought to, but Jaskier was weak, a slave to his emotions, was far too tired to fight temptation now. Plastering one of his usual and easy-going smiles, he felt the need to reassure him nonetheless, “I’m right as rain, my dear Witcher. But thank you for your valiant concern, I appreciate it, truly.”

If, later that night, in the thralls of an uneasy sleep, Jaskier happened to reach out for the sleeve of Geralt’s shirt, his hand gently seeking out his arm for comfort, the Witcher wasn’t one to comment on it the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your kind comments and kudos :)


	3. III

His skin was burning, his throat was dry and it felt like he was choking on his own blood once more. There was a malevolent djinn clawing at his neck rather insistently, sprinkles of magic clogging up his airway and _he couldn’t breathe! He couldn’t br – He couldn’t -!_

“Jaskier?” Nothing, the world was painted crimson as he retched up his own blood in front of him, an unpleasant metallic taste lingering in his mouth long afterwards as his lips trembled. _“Jaskier, wake up!”_

He was shaken rather insistently, snapped awake at the unwelcomed feel of someone jostling his bad shoulder, his entire body wracked with tremors and drenched in sweat. Leaning over him was Geralt, silver brow creased, lines of worry Jaskier was guilty of putting there making his chest seize, and a hint of concern glinting in his lovely golden eyes.

“We’re heading out after the elusive drowner shortly, thought I’d let you know.”

It took a moment for Geralt’s words to truly register with him, but once they did, Jaskier was left once again short of breath. Had Geralt actually said _we?_ Was he… Actually asking him to come along? He was not some burden to him best left behind then? “You… You want me to come with you?”

“Would you rather stay here?” He deadpanned.

“No, no of course not!” Jaskier said, more careful as he sat up this time, fumbling around for his doublet and cautious as he slipped his injured arm in it. Geralt had the decency of at least turning around, gave him his privacy for the short while he’d needed it. It was still as awkward to button up, especially now that Jaskier had but one good arm to work with, but hoped he’d get the knack of it soon enough, he was not about to stoop so low as to ask the Witcher for help getting dressed, he was not some incompetent bairn.

“You all right?”

“I’m _fine,_ Geralt.” He breathed, turning to him once again once he was sure his pain was held at bay, yet Jaskier could not bring himself to look his friend in the eye, knew he  
immediately would waver under that withering stare of his were he foolish enough to try.

“You don’t look _fine.”_ The Witcher countered, tilting his head, looking him up and down with a critical eye, and Jaskier knew he’d not last much longer were he to do nothing about it. As much as he usually loved basking in the rare times Geralt would openly show his concern for him, lord it over him for weeks after and remind him that _yes, Witchers do have a heart, they do have feelings,_ and that it was _all right to have emotions,_ he wasn’t particularly up for it today. There was no reason for Jaskier to needlessly worry him so, or

Geralt would soon be looking for more drastic measures than a genie to remedy his sleeplessness, he did not wish to even imagine what a disaster that would turn out to be.

Jaskier still had nightmares about the bloody djinn by the idyllic riverside.

“I’m a little tired, just didn’t have the best of naps. But I won’t be a bother to you, I promise.”

He turned to the door as he said it, leading the way out before this conversation veered far too close to the secrets he was trying to hide, thanked Melitele for the lack of waver in his voice and tried very hard to ignore Geralt staring a burning hole straight through his back.

He _knew,_ Jaskier was certain the Witcher knew how much of a fuck up he was. He was just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to finally tell him to fuck off for good and break his heart while he was at it, for good measure.

* * *

As it turned out, Geralt did not go far, and Jaskier counted it as a small mercy as he limped behind him, arm a dead weight by his side. He would not forget to write him a song about his benevolence when it stopped aching, when the clouds of hurt and tremors of pain released him from their iron grasp. He’d be sure to include metaphors and hyperboles aplenty, the crowds always went wild for those, and if it happened to ruffle Geralt’s heroic feathers a little, well it would be a price the Witcher would simply have to deal with for his name to go down in History. Heavy were the shoulders burdened with fame and adoration, after all.

He was not entirely certain as to where they were, exactly, nor how long they’d been walking – it felt like hours, but surely could only have been a fraction of that – or, for that matter, where they were headed. Jaskier came to the conclusion that the pain in his arm must have made him black out for a moment, lose his senses for a time – seconds, minutes, hours, he could not say which, and, somewhere, thought he ought to have been far more worried about it than he currently was – all he could do was trust that Geralt knew where they were going and do as best he could to follow in his footsteps. Try not to screw that up too.

His silver hair was a guiding light among the trees, a shining star for when Jaskier happened to stumble off track. Geralt had yet to comment on it, and he knew it would not be long now until his antics made him boil over – he _knew,_ he knew he was fucking it up, something so simple as to walk behind him, it was a wonder his presence was still tolerated. And perhaps such thoughts weighed heavily on his heart, the very same heart Jaskier was certain he’d already wholeheartedly given to the Witcher, but it was too late now, let him be his judge, jury and executioner, let Jaskier die a broken-hearted man. Twas better to have loved once than never at all, he thought cynically.

Still, the pain in his arm made itself known every so often – _too_ often, in Jaskier’s mind- and keeping his shoulders straight and his eyes trained on Geralt’s luscious silver hair was becoming increasingly more difficult.

“You sure you’re alright?”

It took Jaskier another too-long minute to realize that Geralt was talking to _him,_ and not some stray animal they may have stumbled upon in the forest. The Witcher must have thought him quite the idiot, as Jaskier merely stared at him, dumbly. _No,_ he was most certainly _not_ all right, and while it had taken a big hit to his pride to admit as such to himself, he was not about to debase himself any further and say so out loud to Geralt, the White Wolf may as well bury him six feet under to spare him the humiliation. His arm was like a furnace, there was cold sweat running down his back and his face was probably ashen at this point, Jaskier could feel the dark circles under his eyes as he blinked, and with the way luck seemed to have perversely avoided him as of late, if he awoke tomorrow to a burning fever or something equally as shitty, Jaskier did not think he’d even be surprised. He’d be of no use whatsoever to Geralt then, but what was he to say? He couldn’t very well tell him the truth now, could he?

His throat was clogged, swallowing felt like grating his raw skin on sandpaper – decidedly not a pleasant experience – and he ached to relieve the pain in his shoulder, but with Geralt looking at him like that, succumbing to his weak and human desires would give away what Jaskier had previously invested so much in hiding, and he was not sure he was quite ready to face down the Witcher’s fury. Such a frightfully intimidating emotion was generally what was told to naughty little children to get them to behave, and Jaskier had little desire to put his mother’s sweet bedtime stories to the test. He’d bared witness to it on the rare occasion, the thunder of Geralt’s ire, held no inkling whatsoever to be struck by it in person.

So he lied. “I’m fine, Geralt, really. Anyway, where is that drowner you’re after?”

Geralt merely hummed, deigned not give answer to his question, and had Jaskier known him less, he might have been offended. This was far from the first time his friend hadn’t bothered with his persistent inquiries, he’d grown used to it, by now, the initial sting of rejection having long ago faded away into nothingness. And, really, Jaskier supposed that, were he in the company of a person such as himself, he too, would probably chose to not entertain their annoying small talk. His voice, while certainly his primary way to make bread – and certainly boasting of a far superior quality than that of Valdo Marx, thank you very much- was rather burdensome, as he’d come to realize, and for him to impose it so often on someone as reclusive as Geralt was rather unfair. He’d have to work on that, in the future.

They walked – or, to be more precise, Geralt walked, Jaskier tried his very best to stumble along behind him and not fall face first on the ground and promptly pass out – in companionable silence, at a relatively slow pace, which was not exactly what Jaskier would have expected from Geralt if there was an elusive drowner out there to catch, until, at long last, Geralt came to a halt – and _fuck._ They were back at the little village again, Jaskier was positive that large building at the back was the inn they were currently staying at.

“Geralt?” He asked, hesitant, unsure as to what exactly this was all about.

“There is no second drowner, Jaskier.”

That effectively _did_ make him double take, because _what the fuck was Geralt on about, exactly?_

“Excuse me, _what?”_

“I lied.” Geralt said simply, as he turned back to him, his earlier anger all but vanished. Jaskier ought to have been relieved, but there was something in the air that did not feel quite right, yet try as he might to listen out for it, the little something remained ever just out of his grasp, _damn it._ “The last drowner is long gone by now, it’s not here.”

Right, the drowner was gone, which meant that they were here for… _what exactly?_ A rational part of Jaskier’s brain – a part he could feel begging for a reprieve and some well-earned sleep with increasing persistence – said he ought to have been offended at Geralt deceiving him in such a way, be angry at himself for so easily falling for it, but, frankly, the bard was far too tired to muster anything much towards his friend’s trickery. “You lied to me, huh. I’m wounded.” The words sounded empty, even to his ears.

“So am I.” Geralt shot back, but not a trace of ire was to be found upon his features either, instead, Jaskier thought he looked hurt above anything else. “You lied to me too.”

That came as a surprise. Jaskier was no saint, he would have been the first to readily admit as much. He dabbled in sins of the flesh with whatever partner proved to be willing and, occasionally, coin, when times were tough and his stomach was empty, when stealing became a necessity, but Geralt had never made known any aversion to his lifestyle prior to this, it seemed a little late to put their friendship in question over his morality _now._ And he was pretty certain he’d have remembered lying to Geralt had he done so, _right?_

Geralt’s golden eyes were ablaze, fires of distress and hurt burning a new hole in his shoulder and- _ah, yes, his shoulder,_ that very same shoulder he’d tried and failed to mend, that very same shoulder Jaskier knew he was still lucky to have attached to his person.

That very _injured_ shoulder he’d foolishly decided to keep resolutely quiet from the Witcher.

 _That_ shoulder. Of course, damn him, _of course_ he should have known better than to think he’d be able to hide something like this from Geralt’s highly-trained Witcher senses indefinitely when he was but a measly human, there was not much he was able to conceal from him on a good day, hoping that he would never catch wind of this truly was pushing the limits of possibility.

Ah well, ever the optimist, at least he’d tried.

“You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet as of late,” Geralt remarked, his euphemism not lost on either of them, and when did he learn to use such a sophisticated turn of speech? Jaskier thought, if anything, _he_ was the one who mastered the art of language, the Witcher that of the sword, grunts and _hmmms._ “Were you ever going to tell me about your arm?”

 _No,_ Jaskier had most definitely _not_ intended to tell him _anything._ He knew, now, that it had been a rather idiotic decision to make, but after the djinn, he’d really not wished to put his companionship of Geralt in jeopardy, and an injury brought on by his own foolishness had seemed to the bard like quite the deal-breaker to whatever arrangement it was that he and the Witcher had. Perhaps it had been a stupid reasoning, but it had been enough for him, much better than face down his friend’s wrath.

Which, surprisingly, had yet to rear it’s ugly head. Geralt was still quiet, hurt dancing along his features in a show Jaskier had seen far too much of, and guilt coiled around him, threatening to choke him as it weighed upon him that this time, the affliction so clearly present upon the Witcher’s features was there because of _him._ He’d not meant for this to happen, really, he hadn’t. If anything, he’d wanted his silence to spare Geralt anymore pain and worrying on his behalf ever since they’d left Rinde, he’d tried to prove himself worthy of traveling by his side, _this_ … Albeit misguided, probably, this had just seemed like the right thing to do.

“You’re not angry?” He asked, hesitant, waiting for the other shoe to drop and bracing what little he could of his body against the impact. It would hurt, a lot, crumble the fragile shards he’d barely been holding together since Yennefer had magically mended his throat, but after lying so brazenly to Geralt, so obviously hurting him and probably ruining their trusted friendship, Jaskier supposed his anger was the least he could bear as penance for his sin.

He would much rather not be having this conversation at all, truth be told, would like to bury his head in the sand and continue on like things were. Yet the secret was out now, Geralt’s feelings laid bare before him, and while Jaskier may well have been a coward and wished to flee his own apprehension, he thought he ought to do better by Geralt, his _friend._

“I’m not angry,” The Witcher said, his frustration and hurt so gentle it almost felt _wrong,_ yet Jaskier supposed he ought not to have been surprised, Geralt was an oxymoron in and of himself – a Witcher with feelings, someone who deserved the wold and who thought of himself as the scum of the earth, who tried so hard to appear gruff and yet smiled the gentlest of smiles to his horse, enough to make Jaskier melt and his heart soar when he happened to catch sight of them from the corner of his eye. “I’m… Upset you chose not to tell me. I may be a monster, Jaskier, but I’d like to think even I’m not so cruel as to leave wounds to fester.”

“You’re not a monster, Geralt.” He said back, with vehemence, because _damn it,_ he wished his very best friend would cease to see himself in such a depreciating manner, Geralt was far more humanist a person than many a fellow he’d met throughout his (albeit, much shorter) life, and _fuck_ if his hard work rehabilitating his image may indeed have been born out of a desire for those same pieces of scum to cease perceiving the Witcher in such a way, Jaskier nevertheless wished for Geralt to take his words to heart too. He meant them, every single one of them, his songs and poems were not all just empty entertainment, his heart and soul poured into every choice of word. “I’d have hoped my songs would have made that obvious, at least. Well, those and the whole, you know, _being your friend thing._ Well, I mean, _I_ think you’re my friend, but I understand if it’s not the same way for you, really-”

“You _are_ my friend, Jaskier.” Geralt cut him off, and effectively shut him up – his words few but no less effective. There was an ocean of emotion behind them, Geralt vulnerable, looked at him with a tidal wave of feelings brimming in his eyes and threatening to spill over his quivering lips, “Which I why I’d thought you would have told me about your shoulder. I’d rather have found it out from you than from the innkeeper.”

 _Ah,_ so the kind innkeeper had been the one to sell him out, Jaskier would have to have a word with the sneaky little bastard when they got back. At least, he thought he’d very much enjoy giving him a piece of his mind on matters of trust and keeping secrets and all that, but it might have had to wait a couple of hours, for right then, Jaskier was pretty certain he was about to keel over, the little black spots dancing at the edge of his vision with more insistence not about to go away anytime soon.

“Fuck.” Seemed perhaps a little light, as answers went, but Jaskier did not think he could say much more. His hands were shaking again, his knees were trembling and, in front of him, the Witcher was naught but a blur of silver and black, two persistent dots of gold no longer enough to root him to where he stood.

“How bad is it?” Geralt asked as he took a step forward, arm outstretched, reaching for the material of his shirt, concern dripping at the tips of his fingers.

Jaskier licked his now dry lips, squeezed his eyes shut against another dizzy spell. “It’s pretty bad.” He croaked, and it was about all he managed to say before the world went black.


	4. IV

Jaskier had had many rough awakenings in his relatively short lifetime – from drunks’ unwanted groping in a tavern to angry spouses all but unceremoniously kicking him out of chambers where he was unwanted, he would have said he was pretty well acquaintance with them.

This searing pain in his arm, though, was something else entirely, and he lurched into consciousness unable to move and choking on his own breath – fuck did it _hurt._ He couldn’t escape, couldn’t move, his arm a dead weight by his side, and for a lucid moment, fleeting but terrifying, Jaskier thought he might lose it. What life would he have then? What bard could he claim to be without the use of his arm? What use would he be to Geralt when he no longer would be able to spread word of his adventures and humanity? He’d be left behind for sure then, alone forever, crippled for the rest of his miserable human life.

Fuck, he’d only wished to be spared Geralt’s anger. Was that too much to ask for?

Perhaps Jaskier should have learnt his lesson, wishing never ended well for him.

“Jaskier, you awake?”

Through his fevered haze, he could faintly hear the sound of someone calling his name, a hint of familiarity in a dark cloud of ache and agony, a lifeline of intimacy and comfort he desperately sought to latch on to before it too, left him adrift and he drowned here, in his own pain. The voice was deep, the gentle but strong hand on his good shoulder a touch he was certain he _knew_ deep down in his bones, yet in his confusion, Jaskier could not for the life of him figure out who it was.

“Jaskier? Come on, wake up.”

There was a smell, too, faint, but it was definitely leathery, _earthy,_ and… was that a hint chamomile? Yes it was, smelt suspiciously like the lotion he tended to carry around in his pack, too. The one he’d share with nobody, so expensive had it been to acquire, yet had had no qualms rubbing it onto a certain lovely bottom – _Geralt’s_ lovely bottom.

He painfully cracked an eye open, and indeed, it _was_ Geralt leaning over him, he hadn’t left like Jaskier had feared he might. His voice was warm, his hands beheld a strong gentleness in their palm as they grasped his good shoulder, and upon his forehead seemed to be – permanently, now – etched lines of worry, no doubt over him. He clung to them like a lifeline, his friend a far more preferable alternative to the flames engulfing him when he closed his eyes.

“Jaskier,” He said again, as their eyes finally met, blue on gold, relief evident in the Witcher’s, “the healer has to clean out your wound.”

Perhaps consciousness was not so preferable after all, Jaskier mused. He tried to shake his head, wheezed out what he hoped was a half-arsed attempt at a categorical _“no”,_ and Geralt – may Melitele bless him – gently shook his head, kindness still radiating off him in waves. At least Jaskier thought that was what it was, the image of his dear friend was, after all, a little wobbly, probably because he was crying, tear tracks running down his cheeks unchecked – and when did he start? How did he not notice until now? – but yes, it was the Witcher all right.

“It’ll be all right, he’ll be quick. And I’ll stay here, I promise.” Geralt was saying, no doubt trying to be reassuring, and raised his brow again in a delicate question of trust – and _of course_ Jaskier trusted him wholeheartedly – but the bard could not find the words to answer him, could not talk, could not speak, afraid that, were he to even slightly open his mouth, that he’d do little else but scream. So instead, he selfishly sought out Geralt once again, his trembling limb grappling for Geralt’s steady hand, squeezed it as tightly as he dared.

If the Witcher wished to be rid of him forever after this, Jaskier would not fight him on it.

“I… I can’t. Fuck, Geralt, it _hurts!”_ He choked, eyeing the healer feverishly, dreading his medical ministrations. The wound was not a pretty sight, he did not need to garner a look at his shoulder to know, but Jaskier did not think he was up for anyone else prodding at it, no matter how experienced they may claim to be. And he wasn’t like Geralt – Geralt who endured, who did not complain, who did what needed to be done with no moaning or grand theatrics - Jaskier knew he would never come close to the great White Wolf, would never boast of his prowess or his tenacity, and _this,_ he was at that moment doubting he’d even survive what the healer had planned for him.

“You lived through elves beating you black and blue, a cuckolded lord threatening to castrate you in front of an entire royal court and a vengeful djinn tearing at your throat, you lived through _me._ You’ll walk away from this yet, Jaskier, you hear me? I’ll not have you die on me until you at least bore me to tears with a song about it.” Geralt said, voice stern, gaze open and honest, and through his fevered haze, Jaskier managed to grapple at what his friend was doing for him, sobbed, even, at such a touching gesture _– Geralt wished for him to sing again-_ and thought the very least he could do was try and indulge him a little. It would beat focusing on the healer and his dreadful torture at any rate.

“What would you have me sing about then, oh great White Wolf?” He managed to choke out between two winces, hand once again clenching around Geralt’s. If he had lesser knowledge of the Witcher’s strength, he may even have feared harming his poor friend with how tightly he was hanging on.

“Maybe one about a feral White Wolf in need of saving by his little friend? Caught in the terrible grapples of a ghastly beast until a little songbird sung it to sleep. How do you think that would go down?”

Jaskier laughed – regretted it a moment later when it shook his shoulder – the _bad_ one, of course. It was wet, it hurt, but he only had eyes for Geralt, Geralt who was soft, and honest, and gentle and smiling along with him in that discreet way he did, when he thought nobody would catch him, and maybe, if only for that smile, for that hint of humanity he so openly gifted him, Jaskier thought he might live to tell the tale.

“I think a _thank you_ is in order, Jaskier.” Geralt said then, voice serious once more, the previous levity to their conversation gone as quickly as it had come, and Jaskier merely swallowed, unsure he could even find the words he needed for this right now. Geralt’s eyes bore into his, as he said the words, with such honesty, such humility, he could not for a second doubt his sincerity – and really, anyone who dared then say that Witchers didn’t have emotions, Jaskier would personally make sure that they learnt the hard way to perhaps rethink their silly little misconceptions, he’d have no qualms beating his lute over their heads until they changed their minds. “Thank you, for taking care of that drowner.” And, after a moment of pause, he continued, for this apology was long overdue, “And I’m sorry about what I said, back in Rinde, with the djinn by the lake. I was tired, but I never meant for it to do _that_ to you.”

He still had nightmares of it, they both had – Geralt’s sleepless nights tending to their fire had often come to an abrupt end when Jaskier jolted awake with a terrified gasp, far too vivid memories of clawing for breath and choking on his own blood chasing away a good night’s sleep. He’d known not what to say, in those moments, had hoped, perhaps, that they could move on, return to their previous companionship like nothing had happened without really having to talk about it – had foolishly believed it had occurred too when the bard never mentioned it, yet now that the words were out in the open, hanging between them, Geralt felt lighter for it, relieved Jaskier knew he’d never intended to kill him.

“I know,” The bard said, quietly, “And I’m sorry too, for overstepping when I should not have, upsetting you when you so clearly needed your space. Perhaps, next time, _tell_ me when you’re troubled?”

An unspoken forgiveness past between them then, like a warm breeze on a lovely summer night, gentle upon their features, a balm for the soul, whisking away with it the last remnants of a turbulent day. It swept up misunderstanding and anger, carried on its wings pain and hurt, leaving behind little seeds of hope to be warmed when the sun shone tomorrow. Jaskier wiped away the last vestiges of his sins, his lute-callused fingers flicking them away in a delicate brush, touch turning a tad harsher when the healer set back to work and he grappled for him again. Geralt remained steadfast, however, let the bard cling to him for support as he was tended to, tried not to think about how his chest clenched painfully at the sight of him biting his lip bloody and how his eyes were heavy, purple circles bespeaking of days without rest trailing after him.

“I don’t want to look, Geralt,” He whimpered, voice small and fearful, a sheltered child of nobility with little experience of the world instead of a travel-hardened poet, who sang full of confidence and bravado. The Witcher understood, however: without his arm, Jaskier would no longer be able to play any music, his lute would accompany them perhaps, but never to be touched again. He’d have liked to tell him that it mattered not to him, that he was worth more than just his singing, but instead contended himself with tightening his hold around his hand.

“And that’s fine. I’ll do the looking out, you can just hold on to me.”

Wordlessly, Jaskier heeded his offer, grateful he could have faith in Geralt in regards to his well-being and passed out, one of the Witcher’s hand still clasping his own, the other having, at some point, strayed to his hair, now carding through his sweaty bangs. It was a nice way to go out, it was comforting, intimate. He could trust Geralt to look out for him when he no longer could.

* * *

He was not sure when exactly consciousness fled him, only that it must have, for when he next awoke, the sun was setting outside.

The first thing Jaskier noticed was that he was far more comfortable now, the terrible burn and constant pain that had been weighing his arm down for too long now gone, disappeared into thin air. He shifted, slightly, trying to get more comfortable, eyes darting around, looking for –

_Geralt._

Who was there, like he’d said he would be, sat on the wooden chair by the bed, seemingly absorbed in the herbs he was crushing together. His heart felt lighter at the sight of him.

“Please tell me you haven’t stayed there since I blacked out?” He asked, voice still weak – Jaskier would unfortunately not be singing for the next week by the looks of things - but already feeling somewhat more like himself. Whatever the healer must have given him seemed to be working wonders.

“Jaskier.” The Witcher greeted him, golden eyes alight once more and his entire posture slumping in relief, as he saw for himself that he’d pulled through. It was nice, this concern-ish thing of his. “You were out for a while.”

“The drowner-“ He asked, had to know Geralt had not given up his contract on his account. That had been precisely why he’d kept his mouth shut in the first place, let his sufferings at least show the fruit of his hard labours.

“Don’t worry about it, Jaskier, its dead.”

“Fuck, are you-?”

“No, I’m not hurt. I took care of my scrapes three days ago.”

_Fuck. He’d been out for three days?_

Geralt frowned at his confusion, moved, restless, on his chair. “You don’t remember?” He asked, a hint of that persistent worry in his question, and Jaskier cursed himself again for making him needlessly fret like that. What kind of friend was he supposed to be?

Truth be told, Jaskier did not remember much outside of the pain – hot, and searing and setting his insides on fire – and he was not eager to experience anything like it anytime soon. He’d have liked to say as such, reassure Geralt that he was still all there, his memories intact, but it felt like his mouth had been stuffed with cotton, painless, but impossible for him to speak much around, robbed of his precious voice yet again, despite no djinn having attacked him this time.

It was far more preferable to choking on his own blood, at least.

“Don’t get your head in a twist, you’ve been through enough.” Geralt encouraged him, his steady hand finding his uninjured shoulder once again, a small gesture that felt far more grounding than anything the bard could come up with. “But, Jaskier, I must know, why lie about it? Why not tell me you were hurt? I promise you I’d have stopped, we would have taken care of it, together.”

 _And wasn’t that just the question?_ Why _had_ Jaskier not uttered a word of his predicament to him?

“I thought…” He started, paused a while to swallow the dryness away and hope to find the right words, not wanting Geralt to take this the wrong way, but supposed he owed him honesty, if nothing else. “I thought you wanted peace, that you would have been angry. I’m sorry.” He said, despondently, realizing now the depth of his mistake.

And fuck, Geralt cursed, as he realized, now, _why_ he’d kept quiet about it, the pieces falling together into a far bigger picture than he’d thought it to be. That this hadn’t just been Jaskier trying to evade his anger, that it went back to Rinde, the lake, the shattered amphora and the djinn. That it went back to Geralt _just wanting some damned peace!_

Peace he’d never really apologized for demanding.

Peace that had nearly killed Jaskier that time, too.

That the bard had interpreted his anger like that was not so surprising, he thought, in light of what he’d said back then.

“Fuck, no. _Jaskier, no,_ I did not mean it like that.” He managed around the sudden lump in his throat, voice wavering with emotion, hoped the poet could decipher how apologetic he meant it to be. Instinctively almost, he reached out for him, his hand hovering over Jaskier’s knee under the covers, far more at ease with a gentle touch to express his remorse yet not daring to do so out of fear of harming him further. If his words had caused him to land himself in such a state, then how much worse could his hand be?

Jaskier, for his part, was having none of it, made the decision for him as he brought his own hand over his, gently caressing it as he lay them both on the covers, and it was all that really needed to be said, acknowledgment and acceptance bled through the tender way his fingers curled around the Witcher’s hand, a gentle squeeze conveying a thousand words neither of them could speak.

Acknowledgment, acceptance, absolution, Geralt vowed to be worthy of them, as he felt Jaskier’s forgiveness course throughout his body. “I was tired, frustrated, and I _know_ I should not have taken it out on you, it was wrong of me, but please, please don’t believe I’d ever wish you dead. I’d never want that.” He looked at him then, open and honest, “I missed your singing.”

“Really?” Jaskier asked, in a breath.

“You can be an annoying arse, sometimes, but I truly do not think I could ever wish for a better travel companion.” He squeezed his hand, gently, as he said so, and Jaskier’s throat felt heavy, clogged with overwhelming emotion this time, instead of blood. Geralt hadn’t meant it, not truly, not with his heart, Geralt wanted his singing, wanted _him._ A thousand genies could have been granted to him then, and Jaskier did not think he could have asked for anything more of them, so content was he with Geralt’s sparse words.

Being Geralt’s travel companion was all he’d ever wanted since they’d left that inn together in Posada however long ago it was, and now here the Witcher was, offering him just that, telling him – in _words_ – that that was enough.

“You’re not angry, then? You know, about the whole _not telling you_ business?”

“I’m… Still upset.” Geralt said, voice raw and careful, as he chose his words. With what Jaskier had just admitted to him, he did not wish for him to interpret what he chose to say the wrong way lest they soon have another tragedy on their hands, “That you did not feel like you could tell me you were hurt and in pain. But, Jaskier, if you are to continue traveling with me, I’d rather you tell me, in the future, if you are injured.” Gesturing to the bed, the cream-coloured bandage around his shoulder, and probably the past few days of worry and anxiety, were Jaskier to read a little more into his tone of voice, his friend continued, “Finding it out like this… I’d rather it not happen again, don’t you think?”

A truce, a new basis for their relationship, built on mutual trust, exchange and actual communication, seemed little to sacrifice for him, Jaskier already talked enough for the both of them as things were, but the rest of Geralt’s offer – the everything else he was willing to give with his question that went unsaid, he could feel his eyes water again and all he could do was smile back at him, a little wobbly at the edges perhaps, for this was all he’d ever truly wanted from Geralt. “I think I could settle for that.” He agreed quietly, voice raw and wavering.

Geralt just smiled – actually smiled, genuine and so bright his golden eyes almost looked dull. _Almost,_ for Jaskier doubted anything could ever truly rival their mesmerizing shine. “Now scoot over.”

“What?” He spluttered, rather inelegantly. _Did he mishear or did - ?_

“You heard me. I paid the healer with the last of my coin from the drowner contract, and I unfortunately don’t have enough to spare for another room. I have not slept in three days and there is no way I am sleeping on the floor.”

Jaskier did not have to be asked twice, and so, heart beating wildly in his chest – for a much different, and far more pleasant, reason than last time – let Geralt settle against him. The bed was not small by any means, but the Witcher cut quite the figure, as he closed his eyes and fell asleep, chest far lighter now that his guilt and worry were no longer weighing him down. It was nice, and if Geralt’s arm somehow found its way around his shoulders that night – touch light and gentle-, his nose nuzzling his hair and his soft breath upon his cheek, well Jaskier was certainly not about to complain.

* * *

After an interminable two days of bed-rest during which he was certain he would lose his mind to sheer boredom, the wound was deemed healed enough for them to be on their way again. The air seemed lighter, when Jaskier stepped outside, stopping for a greedy intake of it now that he’d had a very unpleasant first-hand acquaintance with what it felt like to cruelly be deprived of it.

The sun was shining, life buzzed aplenty around him, he had a belly full of warm soup – courtesy of the nice innkeeper and his exceptional culinary skills – his trusted lute safely in his hands once more, and Geralt who wished for him to still travel with him. All in all, Jaskier was pretty content with the way things had turned out, it would have been nice were this mess with his injury avoided, but he supposed he could not complain too much, given where it had taken both him and the Witcher.

“You sure you’re ready to head out?” Geralt asked again, as he rode up to meet him from where he’d left Roach last night, the mare seeming to be more than eager to stretch her long legs once again. Jaskier did not think he could blame her, and with such a beautiful day, it would have been a shame to put off their departure on his account.

“More than sure. I’ll tell you, if I need a break Geralt, I promise.”

“Good.” He said, lips upturned again, and Jaskier was positive he looked even more beautiful under the morning sunlight, and his heart may have skipped a beat.

Then Geralt promptly extended his hand, and this time, his heart _definitely_ stopped for a moment.

“Are you serious?” He had to ask, incredulous, for through all of their time together, Geralt had _never_ let him ride Roach – the djinn did not count, in Jaskier’s books, he’d been far too out of it what with _nearly dying_ and all to appreciate the horse at the time.

“We’ll stop at the next town, try and find a horse for you. I can’t have my barker fall behind in the meantime, how is he supposed to witness my exploits otherwise? Come on, get on.” There was a hint of fondness laced in his voice and a softness curbing the edges of his lovely features, like things were slowly about to go back to the way they were, and Jaskier needn’t be asked twice to seize the olive branch, did not hesitate even a second before, heart pounding, he took Geralt’s hand and heaved himself up onto Roach’s back. The mare jerked, slightly, at the extra weight, but otherwise did not seem to mind much.

Geralt was warm beneath him, strong and steady like he knew him to be, and if Jaskier clung to him with a little more insistence than necessary, as his arms weaved around his shoulders, clutched his armour so as to not fall off, neither one of them said anything about it.

“If I’d known this was all it would take to ride Roach, I think I would have faked fainting ages ago. Really, Geralt, you should have told me about your soft heart,” He mused aloud, a couple of hours later, breath soft on Geralt’s neck. “I think I could get used to this, though, Roach really is a lovely lady”, he said, one hand lazily resting on the silky fur of her flank, patting muscles born of long travel with gratitude. After a couple of hours on her back – and being conscious enough to appreciate it this time around – Jaskier was forced to admit that the mare was not nearly as intimidating as he’d initially thought her to be, she was actually quite gentle when one pealed back her many layers, not unlike her master in that regard.

“We’d be much faster, like this, don’t you think? And the view! Oh, Geralt, I understand now, why you like it so much up here, everything is just so very clear from Roach’s back, I cannot believe you’ve kept this a secret from me all this time! But another horse would be nice too, like you suggested. I mean, Roach is nice and all, but I’m sure she could do with a little horse-company, don’t you? What do you think, a white one? To go with her lovely list? Or maybe dapple, add a little mystery to it. Pegasus, I think I’ll call them, what do you think, Geralt?”

Geralt did not know much in the art of naming horses, was far from an expert in the field, given that he merely called all of his _Roach._ He was almost tempted to withdraw his offer, because, truth be told, he did not really mind the sound of Jaskier’s voice – not after having gone days without it, the silence giving him too much time to _think, reflect_ and _regret –_ did not mind the weight behind him, it felt _good._ He did not mind, either, when a few hours later and several towns behind them, Jaskier’s left hand left his shoulders to instead rest lightly upon his waist, his fingers warm and soft through his leathers, and _alive._

It felt normal, _right._

“Jaskier?” He said, halting Roach with a gentle tug on her reigns, before turning around, effectively stopping him in whatever song he was trying to craft out of thin air.

“Yes?”

Geralt would have readily admitted to not being one to usually let impulse override him, but here, now, looking at Jaskier _like that,_ and after the past few days overwhelmed with _fear_ and _worry,_ he supposed he could not really be blamed for what little restraint he may have had being shot down. So that was probably why he did not think twice about pulling Jaskier to him by the waist, answering his confusion with a gentle kiss, effectively stopping his sputtering. It was chaste, quick, but said everything his words lacked, everything Geralt did not think himself ever capable of saying aloud.

 _“Geralt, what-?”_ Jaskier sputtered, confused, but smiling appreciatively, looking at him with stars in his eyes and something else Geralt was not sure he could quite grasp. He counted it as a victory, rendering the bard speechless was no easy feat.

“Please don’t do something like that again.” He asked him, voice low, a murmired promise between them. “Just, please tell me when you’re hurt.” It perhaps did not do justice to what Geralt meant to say _\- Please don’t scare me like that again, I care about you – love you – and I don’t think I’d be able to lose you –_ but Jaskier, lettered man that he was, seemed to understand without prying a full-blown admisison out of him, his features more reserved, his touch more gentle, as he rested his forehead on his in a silent pledge.

 _“I’ll try.”_ He whispered, words few perhaps but his good faith no less sincere.

And, really, Geralt could not have asked for much more than that. He was not one for drawn out confessions, full of saccharine-sweet nonsense and overly-emotional declarations, Jaskier’s pointed promise was enough for him – for both of them – and so instead of lingering on trying to fill the blank between them that needed not be filled, he turned away, both of them looking ahead, to whatever contract awaited them next. Jaskier’s hands had not strayed from his waist, and beneath him, Roach whinnied, seemingly approving.

Geralt thought he’d have to have a word with her about that, sometime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roach ships it :)  
> Thank you so much for your kind comments and kudos, they've been lovely :))


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